


The Art Of Cleaning Ceilings

by JadeLupine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, M/M, Romance, will goes insane slowly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:04:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham sat in his cell, not saying a word. <br/>He looked up at the ceiling. <br/>He never looked anywhere else.<br/>Hannibal Lecter came often, every single day, asking him, commanding him, and even begging him to speak. Will didn't.<br/>He remembered though, the conversations they once had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Cleaning Ceilings

**Author's Note:**

> Dark, kind of angst/hurty thing  
> Pretty literall  
> Will goes insane  
> READ ON

Will Graham sat in his cell, not saying a word.

He looked up at the ceiling.

He never looked anywhere else.

It’s not as if the words themselves wouldn’t come. They crouched and trembled in this throat, clamouring with each other to get out, to expose themselves to the frigid prison air. Words tapped at his teeth politely, asking to be let out, please? Words screamed and bit at his tongue, begging him to say them, for God’s sake. But Will Graham sat with his mouth closed and his eyes open, and he didn’t speak, he wouldn’t speak. Alana came first of course, Winston at her heels, and she smiled at first, with her eyes and mouth, asked him how he was doing, asked him what he wanted, if he needed anything, was Chilton being a bastard? He was, but Will simply stared up at the cracked, grimy light bulb, his mouth shut tight and his face impassive even as Winston clamoured for attention. When Alana left, her mouth was still smiling rigidly, but tears snaked down her face.

Jack Crawford, of course, came with a notebook and briefcase as well as his never ending brusque face. Will didn’t even have to try to not speak to him. His mouth closed of its own accord, and he didn’t have to struggle to keep his face stony and turned up. Not even when Jack threatened him. Not even when Beverly, Zeller and Price came to entertain him with dirty jokes and prison innuendo. They even tried to tease him (“If you’ve farted, look up!…” “Who farted, then?” “WILL!”) But still, he stared at the ceiling, his eyes glassy, his throat closed. He remembered.

_“What am I to you?”_

_“What are you to me, Will? You are my friend, you are my partner, you are my colleague.”_

_“What else?”_

_“You are my lover.”_

_“Do you love me then?”_

_“If there was anything I loved more than you, Will, I would kill it.”_

_“How macabre, Hannibal. I love you too.”_

_“I know. I know that.”_

Hannibal Lecter stalked down toward the prison ward, and Alana stopped him with a hand, soft and tender, on his hard shoulder, and that hand, although it wasn’t pressing, or pushy, or forceful, made the murderer stop in his tracks and turn to her.

“He doesn’t speak.” Alana whispered. “He doesn’t say anything to anyone at all. He looks up at the ceiling. Nowhere else.”

“He will speak to me.” The confidence in Hannibal’s voice broke Alana. She knew what went on between the two men, even if Jack Crawford didn’t (or pretended not to).

“He doesn’t say…”

“He will.”

Hannibal shook her off, and moved toward Will’s ward, stood in front of his cell. The man’s curly hair was lank and dull, his stubble limp. He put a hand on the bars, hoping to attract the attention of the man, of his lover, who was sitting on the bed, looking at the ceiling, who didn’t seem to notice the psychiatrist standing merely two metres away from him.

“Hello Will.”

Will stared at the ceiling, and he wondered if people cleaned ceilings.

“How are you doing? Terrible question. Does the food agree with you?”

Will pondered on the art of cleaning ceilings.

“Do they sedate you? Give you too much medication?”

Will hoped, if he ever got out of this place, he would get to clean ceilings.

“Do you get nightmares, Will?”

It must be so satisfying, cleaning ceilings.

“Will, are you this determined not to speak?” Anger laced the threaded edges of Hannibal’s voice. “This is extremely childish behaviour.”

Will wondered what were the implements involved in cleaning ceilings.

“I’m going now, Will, but I will be back tomorrow. You will speak to me then.”

Will wanted to reach the light bulb. He wondered if he could. Maybe, if he tried really hard.

Hannibal strode away down the corridor, his fists clenching, and he saw Alana’s face at the end of the corridor, pale and beautiful, and her expression was limpid, sympathetic and broken. Hannibal wondered if you could force someone to speak, physically. He sat in his car, Alana next to him, and his closed fists banged once on the steering wheel, the horn screaming through the road. Both Hannibal and Alana pretended it was because there was an errant driver, that’s why he pressed the horn so viciously. But the road was empty.

Will still stared at the ceiling, and tried not to remember. He tried so hard.

_“Let’s run away. Come on, Hannibal, it’ll be fun!”_

_“And leave my job? My livelihood? No thank you, Will. I would stay put.”_

_“Let’s go far, far away then. Just for a holiday.”_

_“That seems possible. Where would you like to go?”_

_“Let’s go to Italy. Venice!”_

_“Well, Will. Venice is a wonderful place. I suppose we could book a holiday there.”_

_“Just us!”_

_“None of your mutts. Just us.”_

_“Yeah. A small chalet, and we’ll have dinner on one of those weird long boats?”_

_“Gondolas, you mean?”_

_“Yeah, them. Let’s go soon!”_

_“As soon as we can.”_

The next day, Will woke up, and assumed his everyday position of head turned up to the grimy ceiling, and his mouth shut tight. His tongue tasted metallic. Will wondered if he should chop his tongue off. It didn’t have a use anymore. Such morbid thoughts giggled inside Will’s dusty head as he heard Hannibal’s loafers clacking down the hall, and Will started counting the cracks on the ceiling, hoping there would be a million, maybe two million.

“Hello Will.” Hannibal’s voice floated down to him. Will knew Hannibal would have a smile on his face, a small, pursed smile he gave to outsiders. A polite, closed grin. Only Will could tell if it was fake. That is, if he was looking.

“Will you speak today?”

Will almost giggled. He had lost count of the ceiling cracks.

“It takes one hour to drive here, Will. It takes much of my time to come up here and talk to you.” Resentment tugged at the edges of Hannibal’s voice.

Will wondered if they would let him clean ceilings if he was good.

“Will, there was another Ripper case today.”

Will thinks he should cover up the cracks in the ceiling.

“Will, you are wasting my time.”

Will thinks it would be easy to clean the ceiling if only he had a broom.

“Will. Speak to me.” Hannibal grated the words out of his mouth, and ice poured into every inflection.

Will wonders if anyone lives in the walls. He would like to live in the ceilings.

“Will, do you miss me?” Hannibal whispered. Would this get the man to speak? “Do you think of me often?”

After he cleans the ceilings, yes. Will would like to live there.

“I think of you often. I will be back tomorrow.”  Hannibal’s eyes closed in defeat, and he went back down, where Chilton and his dearly beloved colostomy bag sneered at him, and let him out of the ward.

Will wondered about gravity when the first tears started to run down his cheeks. His face was turned up and the tears were sliding down icily. Will surmised then, his face wet and his eyes blurry, that he did not approve of gravity. If it hadn’t existed, Will could have cleaned the ceiling. His nose stung. He blinked once and felt that he could clean the ceiling, if only he tried. He should try, later, when he was up to it.

Hannibal Lecter sat with Alana Bloom, neither of them speaking. Their hands were cold and shaking, and Hannibal tried not to breathe too loudly. They sat in the ruddy glow caused by Will’s insanity, and the simply existed there, trying not to take up too much space. Alana finally spoke, her voice pale and reedy.

“What do we do now?”

Hannibal considered.

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t often these three words slipped out of his mouth. He wasn’t sorry, of course not, better Will languish in prison rather than him. But still. But still.

But still.

Will dreamed silently, his hands twitching.

_“How many languages can you speak, Hannibal?”_

_“Nine, and a half. The half being rudimentary Russian.”_

_“Can you say I love you in all of them?”_

_“It would take a while.”_

_“Oh. I can say I love you in English.”_

_“That’s brilliant Will. Kudos to you. Shall we celebrate?”_

_“I bet you can’t.”_

_“I cannot what?”_

_“I bet you can’t say I love you in English.”_

_“I am quite convinced that I can.”_

_“Show me.”_

_“It is such a trivial task, why would I prove it to you?”_

_“Chicken? Is the great Hannibal Lecter a chicken?”_

_“I love you. I love you, I love you. Are you happy?”_

_“Perfectly.”_

Will rose again to the sound of Doctor Lecter coming down the hallway, for the twenty first time in three weeks, and he sensed that Alana and Jack waited in the room with Chilton. Maybe they were going to euthanize him? Will hoped they weren’t, because he didn’t get to clean the ceiling yet. Hannibal stopped in front of Will’s cell and stared at him piercingly.

“Hello Will.”

Will started to sing a little song in his head.

“You _will_ speak to me today.” Hannibal snapped at him, his voice taut like elastic.

Will wondered if there were professional ceiling cleaners.

“Will, _speak_ to me, it has been three weeks. Will, now.” Hannibal said urgently.  

Will however, wondered if you needed to use soap to clean the ceiling.

“Will, I never meant for this. Of course, to blame you.” Hannibal’s voice was a hushed, fervent whisper, one which Will heard, but Alana and Jack did not. “I had no choice. I had no choice, Will, and I can break you out of this place.”

Will thought that ceiling cleaners should have special soaps, that wouldn’t run into their eyes.

“Will, I can take you out of here now. Now. Will, we can escape. Will. Will. Say something.”

Will didn’t want to escape. Will wanted to clean the ceiling.

“Will, _please._ ” Hannibal’s voice strained at the edges, and a note of pleading entered it. “ _Please_ , Will. Speak. Say one thing.”

Will heard the begging in Hannibal’s voice and wondered if he should forgive him.

Maybe they could clean ceilings together.

They could, couldn’t they?

He slowly brought his head down, and opened his mouth.

Alana and Jack, who couldn’t hear anything, but could see the scene from a camera, came rushing into the room. Will didn’t care. Will was going to tell Hannibal to come clean ceilings with him, and he didn’t care if Alana and Jack butted in. He didn’t care, no, no, no.

His mouth opened, and expectation shone in Hannibal’s eyes, and in Jack and Alana’s.

He meant to only say one or two sentences but after one month of not speaking, all the words that he had shut up inside screamed with joy and ran a marathon outside into the cell air, and he couldn’t stop them, they weren’t what he wanted to say, but they wouldn’t stop, they wouldn’t stop at all.

“What am I to you? What are you to me, Will? You are my friend, you are my partner, you are my colleague. What else? You are my lover. Do you love me then? If there was anything I loved more than you, Will, I would kill it. How macabre, Hannibal. I love you too. I know. I know that.” Will gushed out, his voice croaky and hoarse the words running into each other to fast, too fast, almost unintelligible. 

“What’s he saying?” Alana’s eyes opened wide. For one month she had wanted Will to talk, to say something, but when he started, now she wanted him to stop.

“I want to go to Venice. Let’s go to Venice. Let’s go to Venice now. A nice chalet and dinner outside in the gondolas and us, us, only the two of us. I love you. I love you you, you. I can say it in English, I love you, you. You can say it in nine languages; I can say it in English. We should go to Venice. Let’s go now. _Now._ ” Tears ran down Will’s face helplessly, because this was not what he had wanted to say, this was not at all what he meant, and he had no idea what he was saying at all.

He stopped. He turned his face back up to the ceiling.

He wondered how long it would take to clean it.

Alana, Hannibal and Jack sat in Chilton’s room, Chilton himself indisposed because of his surgical trauma. Jack looked hollowly around the room and beheld Alana trying to cry quietly, unnoticeably. Hannibal Lecter stood by the window, his face blank, and his throat working.

“What was he saying?” Alana whispered presently, her face white and pasty.

“I don’t know. Doctor Lecter?” Jack addressed the doctor, who spun around from his position at the window, and addressed them both shortly. “He has withdrawn into himself. That’s what it means. He has gone into the shell of his own mind. That is what he’s saying. He only speaks in flashbacks. That is what he’s saying. We’ve broken him. That’s what, our dear Will Graham is saying.”

He stalked outside the room, trying not to hit something.

He did not pass Will Graham’s cell.

He didn’t need to.

“What’s he saying?” Jack knew, but he asked Alana.

“He’s speaking in flashbacks…” she mused, wiping her eyes. “That would explain a lot of things.”

“So all this _I love you Hannibal_ bullshit was real?” Jack asked.

“They were involved, Jack. They were together.”

“Oh.”

_Oh._

Will Graham sat in his cell and cried and cried.

It was twelve o clock and the orderly, Barney, sat in his room, reading a romance novel. Will tried to mask his tears, and he stared up at the ceiling, wondering again, how long it would take to clean it. He would try. He would try to clean the ceiling now. He needed cloth, so he took off his pants quickly, clad only in boxers.

He hooked the leg of one pants around the knob where the light bulb hung. Unknowingly, he knotted the other leg of the pants into a loop. He scrutinized his work.

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

This was not how you cleaned the ceiling. Will Graham was wrong, wrong, wrong. Bad boy. He would have to  be punished for cleaning the ceiling wrongly.

As punishment, he slipped his head into the loop, and jumped down from the bed.

The next day, Alana, Jack and Hannibal surveyed the scene. Jack physically threatened Barney, the orderly, and told Chilton he would pursue this as a court case. Alana cried and cried and cried. Hannibal tried not to.

It didn’t work.

He looked up at the ceiling, past Will’s body.

It was a very interesting ceiling.

Standing there, tear tracks on his face, Hannibal wondered.

He wondered how to clean that ceiling.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eheheh I hope you liked it!  
> Seriously though, please do leave me a comment, tell me what you thought?  
> Thank you so much in advance!


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